


Esme Cullen

by VampireGuardDogs



Series: twilight headcanons - individuals [9]
Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-01-11 04:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireGuardDogs/pseuds/VampireGuardDogs
Summary: A series of headcanons about Esme Cullen





	1. Anger

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Come talk to me on Tumblr under the username vampireguarddogs and to see a bunch more Twilight content, including writing I don't post here and moodboards! I also accept writing requests for your favorite ship, character, or group. I love any kind of message, long or short, about my work or anything! Have a great day. :)

Esme was really careful to avoid anger in her new life. She had seen danger get far too dangerous in her previous life, and never wanted to be like that. It had caused too much pain for her and others, and she refused to let it get to that point again.

Even though she was incredibly careful not to show it, Esme still had trouble letting go of the anger she felt about her past.she still felt full of anger over what her ex-husband had done to her, how he had treated her. She had so many complicated feelings about her parents, who had turned their backs on her when she had asked for help. She was still angry that her son had died, though she knew that there was no one to really blame for that one. She wouldn’t dwell on it often, but found it hard to ignore some of the time. She did all she could to work against it, refusing to let it fester, to turn her into something she didn’t want to be.

She went into work with Carlisle as often as she could. He would kiss her on the forehead as he went off to his office or to start rounds, whichever the day called for. Esme would wave goodbye before turning to go to the maternity ward. She would visit with each new or expectant mother, checking in with them and helping them in any way they needed.  
After visiting each one, and dropping off baked goods for them and the staff, she would go to the NICU to help in any way she could. She didn’t have much training, and lacked a medical license, but the nurses were happy to have an extra set of hands to help feed and cuddle the newborns. Especially in certain areas, they needed the extra help. She would make sure to bring a heat pack so the chill of her skin wouldn’t hurt or scare the infants. She could spend all day holding them, talking and singing to them in the corner of the nursery. Carlisle had taught her how to look for certain illnesses, so she could keep an eye out for any of those that the nurses might have missed.

She spent almost as much time volunteering for and with local domestic violence shelters. She used most of the food they bought for appearance’s sake to cook and bake a variety of meals and other foods for as many shelters as she could. She donated as much money as needed, and helped with any kind of fundraising each specific shelter needed. Most of her time, she spent at the shelters themselves, helping to counsel the women or look after the children that lived there. She loved reading them stories and playing on the playground with them. It made her feel like a kid again.

In each place they lived, she worked to find or help start an after-school program for any kids that wanted or needed it. Usually it would be held at the school, but sometimes if the area allowed it, she would find a beautiful place near the school (transportation provided, of course.) She made sure there were plenty of activities for the students to do: they would watch TV or movies; play video games; there were piles of board and card games, and always students to play with you. She brought in a plethora of art supplies and was always happy to offer painting or drawing supplies to the students that needed it. Anyone was happy to learn from her. Each week, she brought in a new pile of books and albums the students had mentioned wanting, often “forgetting” to ask for them back. She loved providing a safe place for students to go, someone they could turn to if needed.

All that she did couldn’t erase her anger, not entirely. She was still mad at Charles for treating her like that, had never forgiven her parents for turning their backs on her. She still missed her son terribly, unable to let go of the anger that she was finally given someone so good only to have it taken away. But that was okay. Esme was happy in her new life, happy in the knowledge that she was helping others. She wouldn’t let her anger turn her into something she didn’t want to be. She broke the cycle, choosing to spread love instead of anger.


	2. Stung

Esme ran across her family’s farm, hiding in the shadow of their barn. She peaked around the side, stifling a giggle as she noticed her mother looking for her. At the sound, her mother whipped her head around and smiled upon seeing Esme. She shrieked, the sound turning into laughter as she darted around the other side of the barn and out into the fields.

“Esme! I see you! It’s time to come in for dinner!” her mother called as she ran after her. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but smile. Her daughter loved to run and play, but at twelve, she was getting too old for this.

“Catch me first!” Esme called, stopping to catch her breath. She was near the trees at the edge of their property now, and, seeing her mother was getting too close, she turned and ran to the trunk of a particularly tall one. She jumped up to grab one of the lowest branches, scrapping her shoes on the trunk to catch herself as she began to climb. She reached for the next branch, wrapping her hand around it and squeezing hard to pull herself higher. Before she could, she screamed, yanking her hand away. There had been a bee on the branch, and it had stung her hand in self-defense. In her haste to get away from it, she lost her balance and fell off of the branch. She screamed again on her short way to the ground, landing in a heap over the roots of the tree.

“Esme!” her mother screeched, running faster until she was at Esme’s side. She knelt next to her daughter, running her hands over her back and arms to check for injury. “What have I told you about climbing trees? You are too old for such childish nonsense!” She scolded, finding no signs of serious injuries.

“I’m sorry, mama,” Esme said, clutching her hand. She began to cry as the bee sting in her palm worsened.

“What happened?” her mother asked, pursing her lips.

“I got stung by a bee in the tree, and then fell,” Esme said with a sniffle. She moved to show her mom her injured hand.

“Oh,” her mom said, her voice softer. “Well, you don’t seem to have any injuries from falling, thankfully. Let’s go inside and I’ll check the sting,” she said, standing up and helping Esme do the same. They walked across the fields and into their house together. Her mother led Esme straight to the kitchen sink, where light was still streaming in through the window above it. She turned on the water, which was running cold. She took Esme’s hand and placed in under the water.

“The cold of the water should help the burn. Let me find the tweezers,” her mother said, turning and looking through a cabinet. Esme held her hand under the water, watching the patterns it made as it ran over her skin and landed in the sink. Her tears began to lessen as the water helped soothe the sting.” Her mother came back over and handed her a towel, which Esme used to dry off her hand before showing it to her mother. The stinger was still in her palm, the area around red and swollen.

“This may hurt a little, but it will feel better after,” she muttered, taking Esme’s hand and reaching for the stinger with the tweezers. She pulled the stinger out, drawing a wince from Esme. She dropped the tweezers on the towel next to the sink and reached for a bottle of ointment. “Go ahead and put this on it; it’ll help lessen the sting. And cover it with this,” she said, handing Esme the bottle and a bandage. She was cleaning the tweezers and putting them away when Esme’s father walked in.

“What happened to you?” he asked, scrunching his face in confusion as he turned to glare at Esme.

“I was play-” she started to say, before her mother interrupted her.

“She was helping me water the garden when a bee stung her. I was just helping her clean it up a bit while dinner finished. Go ahead and wash up, we’ll have dinner on the table shortly,” she said, drying her hands on the towel as she walked to her husband to give him a kiss on the cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, his grip slightly too tight.

“I’ll be right back. Be more careful outside, then,” he barked as he walked back out of the room. They watched him leave before she turned back to her daughter.

“You know he won’t approve of what we were doing,” she scolded, before walking back to Esme and kissing the top of her head, pulling her in for a hug.

“Thank you, mama,” Esme said, wrapping her arms tightly around her.

“He was right about one thing though,” Esme’s mother said, pulling back.

“Yes, mama?” she asked.

“You need to be more careful outside,” she said with a laugh, reaching out to tap Esme on the nose. She giggled, wiping the last of the tears away. “Now help me set the table,” she added, handing Esme a stack of plates. Esme smiled, grabbing the plates with her uninjured hand and carefully setting them out on the table before sitting next to her mother’s seat.


	3. In Love with Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild tw for domestic abuse

Esme had been interested in art her whole life. She spent so much of her childhood drawing; paint was too hard to come by, especially when her parents didn’t approve. She could sit around her parent’s small farm for hours, sketching the horses, the plants, the cows, the horses that lined their property, the few buildings that dotted the land. She filled up notebook after notebook with her sketches, slowly noticing how much she was improving as she kept drawing the same subjects over and over. She would draw in her classes, practicing by drawing the people around her. She rarely showed her drawings to anyone, knowing they wouldn’t improve. Art wasn’t a likely career, especially for a poor farmgirl. 

She began to treat her drawings like a diary of sorts, using them to document how she felt. She would draw her mother after an argument, her face twisted in anger. Her father after he came home from a long day at work, the tiredness etched on his face in the pages of her sketchbook. Her best friend, with her rosy red cheeks and eyes full of laughter, drawn after Esme realized how much she loved her. She drew her favorite animals, her favorite plants, quickly jotting short poems about how much she loved the object.

She drew less the older she got. Her mother forced her to learn “how to be a proper woman,” as she called it. She had to help her mother around the house, cooking and cleaning. She learned how to sew, how to make clothes, everything she needed to know to be a good wife one day. She stole every moment she could to continue drawing, small sketches at the bottom of her school notes or on the back of old papers she found. She showed her drawings to others less, often refusing to even speak about it to most people. 

She opened up to a kind doctor that fixed her broken leg after an accident; he was the first to encourage her to do what she wanted. She tried to go back to show him her drawings, but he had left town by the time she was able to sneak to visit him. She kept his advice with her though, continuing to draw as much as she was able. His face started to fill her sketchbooks; she kept practicing until she could get the kindness and warmth of his eyes, his genuine smile just right.

She didn’t draw much when she was with Charles. She had trouble seeing the joy in life; she no longer felt the need to document what was around her. These weren’t things to wanted to remember, as she prayed she would get away. She tried to sketch some, tried to bring that joy back into her life. But her subjects weren’t near as joyous or full of love as before: bruises on her arms and legs, looks of worry on her friends’ faces as she lied when they asked, bottles spilled around their dark house. She did what she could, trying to document what this was like so she didn’t lose herself, hoping she would be able to look back at what she escaped one day.

And then, one day she woke up, and looked into the face of the only man who had ever encouraged her. She was shy at first, hiding her sketches on the backs of receipts, or the scraps of paper she would find around the house. She didn’t want to bother him by requesting frivolous things that weren’t necessities. But he knew what she wanted, and came home one day with a bunch of sketchbooks, all different sizes and types of paper, some of it even colored paper. He provided her with a collection of different pencils, as many kinds that he could find. Different pencils made of graphite or charcoal, different thickness and shades, some soft and others hard. “I didn’t know what you liked to use, so I got you a little bit of everything,” he said when he gave them to her, showing her an empty room in the house where she could store it all. 

She was thrilled to receive the supplies, so much more than she had ever had in her life. She began using them as much as she could, drawing so much that she forgot to do other things. If Edward or Carlisle wanted to talk to her, they had to find her where she was sketching, hoping they could get her attention. It worked some of the time. 

This time, she never had a shortage of things to draw. She started with their house, drawing the different things she had seen when she woke up, all the parts of their life she loved and had questions about. The cross from Carlisle’s father, his stack of favorite books next to his bed, Edward’s piano where he played song after song for her, the flowers that Esme started bringing in because they reminded her of her childhood gardening with her mother. She quickly moved to the outside, drawing as much of her surroundings as she could. She had never seen so much beauty, and now she had the freedom to appreciate it. She would climb to the tops of trees, wanting to get as close to the sky as she could to draw the clouds and stars. She drew the river the circled their house, the trees that lined it, the flowers that grew in nature’s patterns all throughout their yard. She filled up sketchbook after sketchbook with all the parts of her new life, unable to contain the joy she felt at having a life she could love.

She was more careful in drawing people now. She was shy around her new company; she knew she was safe here but she couldn’t shake the worry. But that didn’t stop her from carefully documenting them as they helped her navigate this new chapter in her life. Her first drawing had been of Edward, his face shining as he laid in the meadow, the sun shining off of his face. Esme drew him sitting at his piano, his face twisted in concentration as he tried to determine the next note he should write. His gentleness when he taught her to hunt, how careful he was to not hurt her or look too vicious for fear of scaring her. She drew him as he hunted his prey, amazed by how gentle he could remain during an act so vicious. The animals they hunted earned a place in her sketches too, carefully documented as they lived.

She started drawing Carlisle later, her growing feelings meaning that she couldn’t keep him off her mind for too long. She drew him when he had a smile from ear to ear, laughing at a joke she told him. His face full of concentration and concern as she began to open up to him, a look she could only describe as love carefully filled many pages of her sketchbook. How he looked when he came home from work, the way he smiled whenever he saw her, they way he would examine the pages of a book as he read late into the night, how he showed her the different plants in the woods when they went on walks could fill sketchbook after sketchbook. She couldn’t stop drawing him no matter how hard she tried; she wanted to document every part of her life with him.

The more she created, the more supplies she wanted and the more Carlisle got her. He was thrilled to see her enjoying something so much, knew how hard she worked to be happy. He would give her anything she needed to make that possible; anything to make her transition into the life he forced on her easier. He would often bring home new sketchbooks for her; refusing to admit how long he would look in stores for the perfect one for her. He tried to find ones with different patterns on the covers, knowing she preferred to have sketchbooks as decorated on the outside as the inside. 

He began bringing home new tools for her to practice drawing with; different types of pencils and pens, different charcoals, eventually bringing home markers and pastels for her to try. She loved it all - each was a new challenge. He eventually brought home paints for her, after she confided in him she had always wanted to paint but her parents never allowed her. She loved watercolors the most, but also experimented with oil and acrylic paints, appreciating the different things you could create with each new media.

The first subject she always tried with a new tool was Carlisle - the look of joy and love on his face whenever she interacted with him was something she could never get tired of looking at. She felt like she could never get it quite right, but that didn’t stop her from trying.


	4. Happy Outside

Esme spent her childhood years running around her family’s farm from the moment she could run. It didn’t matter to her that this wasn’t how a girl was “supposed” to behave; this was what she wanted to do. As soon as she was allowed to go outside, until when her mother demanded she come back in for chores or a meal, she played to her heart’s content. The weather or time of year didn’t matter; Esme would play however she wanted, however made her happy, whether it was in snow, rain, or blazing hot sun.

Sunny days were her favorite. The heat didn’t matter; she could enjoy herself no matter the temperature. The only difference was on hotter days, because she had to be more careful to not get overheated or otherwise harmed by the heat. She would constantly run back in the house, grabbing a quick drink from the sink before running back outside. She would do this until her mother yelled at her to pick either inside or outside. She would obviously choose outside, grabbing a cup and filling it to take outside with her.

She would spend these times climbing trees, seeing how high she could get. She tried to get a little higher each time; she imagined she would be able to touch the sky if she could just get close enough. 

If it was hot enough, she liked to lie in the shade of the biggest trees she could find. She would either bring out a book and read, diving into whichever fictional world she was obsessed with at the time. Other times, she liked to bring out one of her sketchbooks (she filled them up so quickly) and create fictional worlds of her own. She would draw whatever she saw around her, or use it as a reference to bring her own ideas to life on the page. She would sometimes add words, creating a story around the image she had drawn. Other times, she would let the drawings speak for themselves.

When it was raining, she loved playing in it until she was soaked to the skin and her clothes were clinging to her. It drove her mother crazy, but that couldn’t stop the absolute joy she felt the moment she saw drops start to fall. Esme would run out to the road that ran along their property, jumping through the different puddles created by the potholes all over the road. She laughed at the splashes she created, seeing how high she could fling the water. 

She loved to cup her hands together, seeing how quickly they would fill with the rainwater before taking a big drink of it and letting the rest fall, splashing at her feet. It was fun to splash her face with it, feeling the cold water run down her cheeks. Sometimes she would throw it up in the air, watching as it fell back to the ground, landing with the raindrops. 

When it would snow, she could spend all day playing in the flurries. She would roll snowballs as big as she could, using them to create snowmen. Each one would be different from each other: different sizes, different expressions on their faces, different materials used to create their arms and other features. She would flop onto the ground and create snow angels, as many as she could fit. Whenever she was tired, she would lie on the ground, looking up at the sky to watch the flakes continue to fall. She admired the different shapes of them, catching them on her gloved hand, examining them before they melted.

She would even find fun ways to do the chores that her mother insisted she do. As long as she was outside, she was happy. One of her main responsibilities was to work on the garden, pulling weeds and making sure all of the plants were watered. She could spend hours working there, plucking any weeds she found and discarding of them so that their plants could grow healthy and strong. She loved watering them, using a bucket to transport water from the nearby well, carefully splashing it over the plants until the bucket was empty. When the plants were ripe, she excitedly plucked them from the ground, bringing them in to her mother to use for food that day or week. 

Once she was old enough, Esme was also asked to help feed the animals her family owned. She loved this doing this. It was easy enough to bring the animals their food, although it could be heavy at times. She loved to see her muscles grow, knowing that she was getting stronger and that made it easier to climb trees and accomplish other tasks.

When she was done feeding them, she loved to pet and talk to them, telling stories of the things she did, or stories she had invented. They were always visibly excited to see her; all of the animals would come to her whenever she was near and wait patiently for attention. Every time they got a new animal, it wasn’t long before she had befriended it.


End file.
